Candy wrapper? I hadn’t been eating any candy. I jumped off my bed and—

“Oh, shit,” I said aloud.

The dude’s condom sat on the middle of my floor.

At that point in my life, I was already pretty experienced. I always practiced safe sex, and never once did a guy fail to take care of his used condom. I thought it was something they all did. After-sex etiquette, or whatever. Apparently not this guy.

Yeah, I never saw him again.

I grabbed a tissue and disposed of the candy wrapper in the trash can.

My mother never mentioned it again. She was probably relieved to know I used condoms.

I always thought that story might be good Cosmo fodder.

Today, though, I stare at the words without reading them. They may as well be written in Swahili. The letters blur together and make no sense to me. I shuffle through the pages of the magazine, trying to find something that might take my mind off Dale’s cross words, when I come across an article that piques my interest.

“When He Won’t Open Up.”

I tilt the magazine away from Dale so he can’t see what I’m reading. Not that he’s even looking my way. I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. His birth father is in the middle of open-heart surgery. That’s a big deal for anyone. Not sure how I’d feel if it were my own birth father, the serial rapist, but…

God, both Dale’s and my lives are fucked up in their own way.

I read the title again.

“When He Won’t Open Up.”

I doubt the article is talking about an adopted guy whose birth father is in the middle of cardiac bypass surgery. Still, I’m here for the duration, so it’s worth a read.

First point—Be direct.

Well, duh. Can I be any more direct with Dale?

Second point—Open up to him about something.

I’m a freaking open book.

Except…

About my childhood.

About my father.

I read no further. It’s all fluff anyway.

For someone who prides herself on being an open book, I’m kind of sealed shut about those two areas. I don’t even let myself think about the father thing.

Dale holds his phone, but he’s not reading what’s on the screen. Rather, he’s staring into space. Is this a good time? Maybe if I tell Dale about my childhood, about my own birth father, he’ll open up. If not? At least he’ll have something else to focus on for the next several hours.

I lightly touch his forearm. “Dale?”

“Hmm?” He doesn’t turn to look at me.

“I want to talk to you.”

“About what?” Still not looking at me.

I squeeze his muscled forearm. “Look at me. Please.”

He sighs and turns toward me. His green eyes are unreadable. They don’t show sadness. They don’t show anger. They don’t show fear. All emotions that would be normal when a parent is having life-threatening surgery.

But this man isn’t a parent to Dale. Only biologically.

Just like my own father.

“What is it?” he asks.

“I want to tell you something about myself.”

“Sure. What?”

“I… My father…”

“You said you don’t talk about him.”

“I don’t, normally. But I’d like to tell you what I know. And about some other things.”

“Okay.” His tone softens a little, and the burgundy fills the air and seems to float around me in a protective cloak.

I clear my throat. Here goes. No shoving it back inside the Scarlett O’Hara file. “When I was old enough to ask, my mother told me he died in a car crash when I was a baby. She made do as best she could, but eventually we were evicted from our apartment because she missed so much rent.”

“I’m sorry.” He takes my hand. “You told me you’ve gone to bed hungry before. I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah. Hungry. Sometimes cold and hungry. Other times sweltering and hungry. San Francisco can get up to a hundred degrees in the summer.”

He squeezes my hand to the point it’s uncomfortable. “Wait. Are you telling me…?”

“That I was homeless? Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you.”

“Ashley, baby, I’m so sorry.”

I melt. Seriously. Right into butter on the uncomfortable waiting room chair. Baby. He’s never called me any kind of endearment.

Baby.

Baby.

That voice that enthralls me.

But I can’t stop now. I’m opening up to him in hopes that he’ll open up to me.

“Yeah. I mean, we stayed in shelters when we could, but we also lived in a tent sometimes.”

“Fuck,” he says.

I clear my throat. “Anyway—”

“How did you eat?”

“Well…sometimes, we didn’t. Other times, my mom would get a day’s work here or there, and her employer would send home food for us. There was a guy in Chinatown who owned a restaurant. He’d give me rice and lo mein if I went in. Every now and then someone would give me a half-eaten sandwich or something.”

“You ate leftovers?”

“Yeah. I even dumpster dived a few times. Not when my mother was around. She hated that. She’s a classy woman. Being homeless didn’t change who she is.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“It didn’t. She was determined to find her own way and get us out of there. She never resorted to prostitution or selling drugs, like a lot of homeless people do. And she was determined no one would touch me. Ever.”

As a mother should be, of course. But when I found out about my father and what my mother had been through at his hand, I truly understood her determination.

“She sounds amazing.”

“She is.” I force a laugh. “She agrees with you about my oenology degrees, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She wanted me to go to trade school right out of high school so I could start making money. She didn’t want me ever to be in the situation we were in when I was a kid.”

He smiles. Sort of. A half smile.

I’ll take it.

“But I worked my ass off in high school and got great scholarships and grants. The fact that we had virtually no money helped a lot. There’s a ton of college money available for those who really need it.”